


titanium (we bleed in whispers)

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anne is mother of the nation, Harry is a sex god, Hospitals are terrifying but necessary, Liam sends love and beer, Louis is in charge of the world, M/M, Niall loves peri-peri sauce, Nick is in hospital, Parents know more than you think, Pig love, Rihanna love, Xboxing, lorries are dangerous, sometimes it hurts and nothing helps, zayn pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:19:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knows that he and Nick were meant to be. Just not yet. They've got time for that, yeah? They can be all Ed Sheeran, "we found love right where we are," old and boring together later. </p><p>When this certainty collapses in the blink of an eye, Harry struggles to come to terms with a life in which he could lose Nick, in which no matter what he sacrifices, Nick might not wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	titanium (we bleed in whispers)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cashewdani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cashewdani/gifts).



> To cashewdani, with much love for your angst prompt which burrowed its way into my brain and wouldn't let go. And many thanks and great devotion to my amazing, wonderful & talented beta and cheerleader, N, without whom this fic would never have made it to the finish line. ILU SO MUCH.
> 
> Buckle up, bbs, this'll be a bumpy, angsty go of it sometimes, but I promise there's happiness at the end. <3 <3 <3 (Also, forgive me, but despite this fic being set two years in the future, I've kept Nick in his Primrose Hill flat for nostalgic reasons. I should probably also beg forgiveness from Nick for what I've done to this fictional version of him. /0\ Aw, Grimmy, ILU too. Promise.)
> 
>  **Warnings:** Angst, possibly triggering for automobile accidents, hurt/comfort, melodrama, bad hair, more angst, no I mean it, it's sad dammit, but not THAT sad so don't run away!

When a Sainsbury's lorry slams into the side of Nick's black Geländewagen on a wet, slick, dark stretch of the Westway just past Paddington Green, Harry's sprawled near the Azoffs' pool, soaking up the warmth of a late spring Los Angeles afternoon. Later he'll wonder what it was like, those moments of panic, the screech of steel against steel as the G-wagen slides away from Nick's grasp, tyres slipping over rain-soaked asphalt, Fiona and the intern's shouts echoing in the cabin before the SUV slams against stone railings with a deafening crunch and everything falls silent save for the steady thump of rain and wipers against the fractured windscreen.

Harry doesn't know any of this, though. Instead he takes the bottle of Lagunitas IPA Jeff hands him and settles back against the teak lounger, watching Jeff's girlfriend Glenne and two of her friends swimming in the pool. He knows one of the friends is supposed to be there for him, and he's tried to be charming, but his heart's just not in it. He'd rather be back in London, sat next to Nick watching repeats of Top Gear and snarking about Chris Evans' turn on the show. "Definitely no Jeremy," Nick said sadly during Chris' first episode, even if he did think Clarkson was a tit of the first order. Harry'd agreed as he'd slid between Nick's legs and tugged at his zip. Not that he'd actually cared one way or another, mind. It'd just been easier to agree with Nick and focus on what he really wanted: to get his mouth on Nick's prick and distract him properly.

Pool water splashes across Harry's thighs, and one of the girls--the blonde in the tiny white bikini who looks a bit like Taylor--laughs up at Harry. "Come in," she says. Harry doesn't want to, but Jeff eggs him on, telling him to _man up, Styles_ , and Harry wants to be agreeable. He likes Jeff, owes his family. This autumn Harry'll start the final One Direction tour, a full two-and-a-half years after Zayn made them a foursome, and after that he'll be on his own, trying to find his way alone in the music world. Having the Azoffs by his side won't hurt.

Harry slides into the blueness of the pool, giving the blonde--Jenny, he thinks her name is--a slow, easy smile that makes her flush and look away, her red mouth curving to one side. He wonders what it'd be like to fuck her later, her long limbs twisted in the white sheets of the bed upstairs as he thrusts into her wet heat, breathless and aching. He and Nick have an arrangement: anything can happen with anyone else as long as he and Nick aren't on the same continent. Harry knows Nick's fucked Billy and Douglas and Michael back in London, but only when Harry's in LA or on tour. He could have Jenny tonight, if he wants her. She makes that clear as she swims past him, her slender body sliding up against his. He feels that flutter of want stir deep inside, and he dives down into the pool, letting the cool blue water close over him before coming back up in a sudden spray of droplets that spatter across Jenny's long tan arms. In the shimmer of sunlight on water, Harry never sees the reflection of the blues and twos that light up the London night or of the man and woman who carefully pry open the crumpled doors of the once pristine black Mercedes and shake their heads over the lifeless body of Rachael, the intern from Swindon who'd been thrilled to be in Birmingham with Nick and Fiona for her first Big Weekend, who'd dreamt since she was in third form at the local comprehensive about being an entertainment presenter like the ones she'd seen on telly. They pull her free, laying her gently on the wet road before turning back to the SUV. Her dark, curly hair spreads across a puddle; her blue eyes stare blankly up at the rain falling through the glow of the streetlight.

Warm afternoon fades into cool evening in Los Angeles, and Harry's not there for the ambulances that race through the Paddington streets, carrying Nick and Fiona to the major trauma centre at St Mary's Hospital, paramedics bent over both of them, barking stats into their Airwaves. He doesn't see the grim faces of the doctors as Nick's wheeled into A&E, bruises blooming across his pale skin, his breath shallow and laboured, the left leg of his jeans stiff and dark with seeping blood. Instead, Harry raises his glass across the table at Irving and Shelli, thanking Jeff's parents for their hospitality. The wine gleams deep red in the California sunset.

It's only later, sitting beside the fire pit near the pool with Jenny beside him, her slim, brown thigh pressed against his khaki shorts, that Harry's phone rings, Nick's face flashing across his iPhone screen. 

"Excuse me," he says, holding up his phone, and as he steps away, he answers with a relieved "Hey, babe."

There's silence for a moment, and something twists inside Harry, his heart catching in the pause. 

"Nick?"

More silence, and then a gruff, familiar voice says, "It's Pete, Harry. Pete Grimshaw."

He knows something's wrong, even as he moves deeper into the shadows of the back garden, closer to the pool. "What's happened?" It comes out terse and sharp, and he can't help himself. Nothing separates Nick from his phone. Nothing. And if his father's calling Harry on Nick's phone… 

"He's been badly hurt," Pete says. "A lorry hit them--" Pete's voice catches, high and rough. "He's in critical care, and they're not sure he'll make it--"

Harry feels his legs buckle. There's a sharp keening sound in his ears, and he doesn't realise he's dropped the phone until Jeff picks it up. Harry's on his knees, his whole body shaking, the perfectly manicured grass scratchy beneath him. "No," he keeps saying, over and over and over again, even as Shelli's hand settles on his back. She pulls him against her, her dark brown hair soft against his cheek. She smells like citrus, and Harry thinks that he'll never be able to stand oranges again.

Jeff's saying something into the phone. Harry can't stop trembling. He talked to Nick this morning, texted him at noon, just before Nick left to drive back to London. The last thing Harry sent was _stay safe. talk 2morrow?_ followed by three heart-eyes emojis. Nick replied with an aubergine and a kissing face.

Harry wants to throw up. He's eight time zones away, and Nick's in hospital. Possibly never to come out. A shudder goes through him, and Shelli smoothes his hair back from his forehead. 

"Is it Nick?" she asks softly, and Harry nods. She'll understand. She's the only one outside of Nick's clique or his boys or their families who's figured it out, or at least who's confronted him about it. Somehow, he and Nick have managed to hide whatever this relationship is. Shelli presses her head against his. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry." She looks up as her husband's shoes stop next to Harry's knees. "Nick," is all she says to him, and Harry realises that maybe he hasn't kept his secret as well as he thinks he might have.

When Jeff squats down on his other side, he knows he's right. Jeff squeezes his shoulder. "We'll get you back, all right?"

Harry just nods. He doesn't know what else to do.

***

Two hours later, Harry's on the tarmac at the Van Nuys airport, being bundled onto a large Gulfstream G550 owned by one of the record companies whose CEO Irving has on speed dial. Harry's not certain what Irving promised, but when he'd come back into the living room, phone in hand, there'd been a tight furrow in his brow. He'd just nodded at Harry and said, "Found a bigger plane than ours so you won't have to make a stop in New York for fuel." His hand had settled gently on Harry's shoulder, squeezing it. "It'll be a long flight, son, but it'll get you there." 

Harry sprawls across one of the overstuffed leather seats and looks out the window at the airport lights in the distance. The attendant who'd been dragged out of her bed for this flight offers him two fingers of whiskey, neat, her eyes sympathetic. Harry wonders how much they'd told her. Probably not the details, but enough. He takes the drink with a small smile and sets it in the cup holder beside his seat, trying not to notice the way she hides a yawn behind the back of her hand.

Before Harry climbed up the steps to the jet, Jeff'd asked, "Do you want me to come with you?" for the fifth--or maybe sixth--time, and Harry'd just shook his head. 

"Thanks, mate," he'd managed to get out, and he'd meant it. Jeff's good people, and a great friend. Harry'd told him in between long silences in the car over to Van Nuys about Nick, about the weirdness of their relationship and how it was the only way they could have it, keeping things under wraps like this, and it wasn't fair, if Nick was taken away from him like this, with Harry so far away, it wasn't _fair._ "It wasn't supposed to end like this," Harry'd said, and his voice had cracked as he watched the low-slung buildings along North Beverly Glen Boulevard rush by. "We were supposed to have time together later." Jeff had just listened, not saying much other than "I'm really sorry, man."

As the plane takes off in a rush and rumble of hot fuel and shuddering steel, Harry wishes he'd said yes to Jeff. He needs someone with him, he realises. Someone to distract him from himself and the worry and fear gnawing at his gut. He'd rung Pete again before he'd left, to tell him he was on his way, and Eileen had answered this time. She'd cried when she'd heard Harry's voice, and the most he'd been able to get out of her was that, before she and Pete had arrived from Manchester, they'd taken Nick into theater because of internal bleeding and he was still in critical care. The A&E staff had given them Nick's personal effects--his phone and his rings and the necklaces he'd been wearing ("There was a bit of his blood on one," Eileen had said through a sob)--but they hadn't been allowed in to see him yet. She'd broken off with a quick, "Must go, dear, the doctor's coming," but she'd promised they'd have someone there to meet him at Luton when the Gulfstream landed. 

Harry doesn't sleep during the flight, not really. He drifts off for an hour or so, somewhere above the Atlantic, but his dreams are horrific, all fire and blood and tangled strips of black metal along a wet road. His heart feels heavy and numb inside of him, barely capable of keeping him alive if it weren't for the trembling refrain skittering through his thoughts: _I need to see you. One more time. I need to see you. Please. Please, Nick. Please, don't leave me. I need to see you. Please._

Collette's waiting for him when he steps off the plane in the cold, wet afternoon and makes his way into the private terminal. When she pulls him into a tight hug, he breathes in the familiar comfort of her musky rose perfume. 

"It'll be all right, love," she whispers into his ear, and for a wonderful moment, he believes her. 

Together, they load his luggage into a small, bright blue Dacia Sandero that's seen better days. "It's Billy's," Collette says as Harry folds his long legs into the front seat. "Quickest I could get outside of a Boris bike, and I reckon you'd rather not be dragging your luggage down the side of the M1 behind you, would you?" 

Harry gives her a faint smile. He's exhausted and his body's insisting it's still eight hours behind London time. There are messages on his phone from his mum and Gem and Louis. He can't bear to listen to them yet. The news must have hit this morning. Radio 1 would have to explain where Nick was, after all. Harry wonders who filled in for him this morning. Dev, maybe? He doesn't really care.

The M1's slow with heavy traffic, and Harry grips the side of the door more than once as Collette edges around a lorry or three. He waits until they're well down the road, nearly at Hemel Hempstead before he asks. "How is he?" He folds the edge of his black and white Topman shirt--Nick's line, of course--between his fingertips. 

Collette doesn't answer at first. She frowns out the windscreen at the minibus in front of them, manoeuvring them around it, then she sighs. "Christ, what I wouldn't do for a ciggy right now. Or a nice cuppa at the Greenberry with Grim--" Her face crumples, and she draws in a ragged breath. "He's badly, love. Broke a few ribs and his arm and his pelvis, crushed his leg, punctured a lung, bled internally, probably has a concussion, at least…" She trails off. A few raindrops splatter across the windscreen from the grey clouds above. Collette flips the wipers on, and the drops smear across the dirty glass. Harry stares out the window at the lush green trees that blur past. England's so different from Los Angeles. He's used to the palm trees and blue skies now. He spends too much time there, he thinks. He misses home. 

Misses Nick.

"Is he stable?" Harry asks. He doesn't look back over at Collette. 

"For now." Collette's hand brushes his before she settles it back on the steering wheel. "They're watching over him. He's lucky he was so close to St Mary's when it happened, yeah? Top-notch that lot is, every one of them. I should Tweet that. Give 'em a shout out."

Harry doesn't doubt the hospital staff are good. It still doesn't mean Nick will be coming home. His throat tightens and he can feel the burn in his eyes again. He blinks and lets his hair fall into his face, hiding him.

Collette drives on in silence, raindrops streaming down the windows now, the sky crying the tears Harry can't.

***

The reception area beside the critical care unit in St. Mary's hospital is bright and white and lined with padded teal chairs beside low white tables stacked with magazines and newspapers. At the moment the chairs are filled with Grimshaws: Eileen and Pete, Andy and Jane and Liv. Jane stands up when she sees Harry and Collette, and Harry lets himself be wrapped in her arms. He clings to Nick's sister, and his breath slows. Jane's always calmed him, especially around her family. He loves the Grimshaws, but they can be overwhelming at times, all happy chatter and loud laughter when they're together. 

Or maybe that was just Nick, shining through them, reflecting his family in sharp, sparkling facets. 

Jane's hand smoothes across his hair. "I'm so glad you came, Haz," she whispers. "I've been so frightened." 

Harry loves Jane's honesty. He always has. "Me too," he says, and just being able to speak the words finally loosens something inside of him. He presses his face against Jane's shoulder, then into her dark brown hair. "Say he'll be all right." He needs to hear it.

"He will." Jane pulls back and looks at him, her hands settling against his cheeks. Her eyes are bright with tears. "He's our Nick, yeah?"

"Yeah." Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath. He doesn't try to stop crying. There's no sense in it now. The tears he's kept back are warm on his skin, and Jane wipes them away with her thumbs. 

"If anyone can make it through this, he can," Jane says quietly. "He and Fi made it this far--"

Harry looks up then. "Fiona?" No one's told him who else was there. His heart tightens. "Is she okay?" Please be okay, he thinks. He's not certain he could take another blow. He's always liked Fi, the times he'd met her, and he knows Nick thinks the world of her. Nick'll never be able to live with himself if Fiona's hurt. He tenses. If Nick makes it. He doesn't want to think about that.

Jane nods. "She was in the back. Kept her a bit safer, poor thing. They're still watching her, and she smashed up her arm and collarbone, but she's good. The intern, though…" Jane looks away and swallows. Harry doesn't need to ask. Jane's expression says it all.

"Christ," he murmurs, and he sits, watching Collette kneel next to Liv's chair and take her hand. Liv looks shattered and brittle. She's always adored her uncle, almost as much as Harry does, he thinks. 

"The front of the car took the worst of it," Jane says as she takes the chair next to his. She still can't look at Harry, or he at her. He studies the shadow of Collette's hair against the white wall. "Mostly on the passenger's side, but Nick…" She bites her lip, chews on it for a moment. "It sent the car across traffic, right?" Her voice catches on the question, turning into a sob. She wipes the back of her hand across her eyes. "Bloody Sainsbury's. See if I shop there again."

Harry doesn't know what to say, so he tells the truth. "He can't die, Janie," he manages to choke out. "I don't know what I'll do without him."

Jane doesn't try to tell him there's no chance of that. She knows as well as he does Nick could slip away in this breath. Or the next. Harry tries not to breathe, tries to pretend that if he could just stop this moment, could just keep this instant frozen in time, Nick will stay with them. His lungs hurt, burn, and then he exhales in a rush of grief and fear. 

"It's okay," Jane says quietly. Her fingers slip through his. "I don't think any of us do."

Harry's so fucking knackered. He says so, and he lays his head against Jane's shoulder and closes his eyes. Jane rests her head on his. "It's okay, love," she says again. Her thumb is a soft, comforting stroke against his wrist. 

He falls asleep.

***

Harry wakes to a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Eileen's beside him, her grey-blonde hair rumpled and messy. Jane's asleep next to him, curled up against Harry's side, Liv sleeping on her other side. Collette and Andy are gone somewhere, hopefully to suss out some coffee, Harry thinks, as he shifts and stretches. "Sorry," he says. "Have I been out long?" 

"An hour?" Eileen gives him a weary smile. Harry suspects she hasn't slept much herself. "Sorry to wake you, but they've said a couple of us can see him for a minute or two. His Da and I've already been in. I thought you might want to?" 

"Not Jane?" Harry asks. He doesn't think it seems right, but Eileen shakes her head.

"She'd want you to go in first, I think." Eileen twists a set of beads around her fingers, and Harry realises she has a rosary clutched tight in her fist. "Nick and you...well. You've always been a special lad to him, haven't you?"

That's one way to put it, Harry supposes. His relationship with Nick has always confused people, especially when Harry's been seen with girls. After he'd dated Kendall, Eileen had been frosty to him, not that he could blame her. Harry doesn't know what Nick told his mum, but Eileen eventually warmed up to him again, though she's kept him at arm's length, which makes Harry sad. He misses Nick's mum, misses the way she threw her heart and house open to him when he and Nick first met. 

Jane wakes up as Harry untangles himself from her. "Mum?" she says with a yawn, and Eileen takes Harry's vacated seat. 

"No worries, love," Eileen says. "Harry's just going in to Nick for a moment."

"He's awake then?" Jane sits up, her exhaustion falling away. 

Eileen shakes her head, her face twisting in worry. "Not yet." She glances at Harry, then looks towards the ward door. "Go on. Just press the call button and tell them you're to see Nicholas."

Somehow Harry's feet take him across the hall. The ward sister answers the buzzer and opens the door for him. She's small and slight, her hair covered by a white hijab that matches the white piping on her dark blue tunic. She smiles at him as she points him towards an alcohol gel pump. The cool fluid smears easily over his hands, tingling as it dries.

"My name's Amara," she says. "I head up the ward. Just a few ground rules for seeing Mr Grimshaw. You can touch his hands, but that's it. He's not awake; that's normal for this ward. His body's doing its best to recover, and it needs rest. I can give you about five minutes or so bedside and we recommend you talk to him." Amara walks through the narrow hallway into the ward itself, Harry at her heels. "Hearing loved ones' voices seems to help the recovery process."

The ward is spotless, gleaming white, with sixteen beds lining the walls, eight on each side. Most are empty, their bright white sheets tucked in at the corners, sharp folded lines of precision. An antiseptic scent lingers in the air, catching in the back of Harry's throat. He feels a bit ill, and his stomach churns as he catches sight of Nick halfway down the ward. Tubes and wires surround Nick in a halo of medical equipment that beeps and whooshes steadily. A ventilator is taped into Nick's mouth, and ugly, purpling bruises mar his right cheek and eye. He's pale beneath them, and his long eyelashes are dark smudges. His quiff's deflated, limp and filthy across his scraped-up forehead. Harry's chest is tight and painful; he can barely draw in a breath of his own. 

Amara sits him in the chair beside Nick, her hand gentle on his shoulder. "I know it's a bit overwhelming," she says. "But he needs all of you right now." 

Harry nods, unable to take his eyes off Nick. He feels her step away, and then he's alone with Nick. He doesn't know what to do. Nick looks different, a bit swollen in places, and there's a tube that snakes up over the side of the bed, beneath the metal rails and under the blanket near Nick's waist. There's a light red liquid in it, dripping slowly downwards. He's never seen Nick like this, looking so frail and vulnerable and lifeless. Even when he's sullen and cranky, Nick fills the room with his presence. 

This doesn't feel like Nick.

"Hey," Harry says, because he can't think of anything else. "It's me. You know. Hazza." Jesus, he feels like a fool. Jane ought to have come in; she would have known what to say. She wouldn't have stumbled over her words like an idiot. Harry looks away, lets his hair fall over his face. He draws in a deep breath. "You look like shit, you know." His voice cracks. "Terrible hair, love. You'd be horrified if you could see it. I'd try to fix it for you, but there's tubes in the way…" His throat closes up; he feels the heat of tears in his eyes again. He blinks them away. "Fuck. I don't know what to do. Talk to you, they said, but it's hard, isn't it? Seeing you here. Being so fucking scared--"

He presses his lips together. The machine next to him beeps unwaveringly, a discordant metronome of trauma that echoes down the ward, beside each occupied bed, every machine marking the seconds slipping away in a life. 

Terror shivers through Harry. He won't lose Nick. He can't. Even when he's away from Nick, Nick's still there somehow, in his thoughts, in his heart. When he's buried balls deep in some girl or eating her out, he's thinking of Nick. When something makes him laugh, the first person he wants to share it with is Nick. When he's angry, a phone call to Nick can calm him like nothing else. Nick is Harry's everything, and Harry's known that for a while. He's just never said it. Never told Nick he was more than a great shag with his best friend. Never told Nick he wanted more. 

Never told Nick he loved him. 

He does. Harry knows that now. He loves Nick more than anyone. Maybe even more than his mum or Gem, but even as he thinks that he knows it's a different love. Harry just doesn't know how to say it now. 

So he doesn't. Instead he touches Nick's hand, warm beneath his fingers, and he sings. Rihanna at first, _yellow diamonds in the light and we're standing side by side_ , then the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, _flow sweetly, hang heavy, you suddenly complete me_ , and back again to Nick's adored Rih-Rih, _something in the way you move makes me feel like I can't live without you_. Harry's cheeks are wet as the last note cracks on his voice, and his hand tightens around Nick's. 

"I want you to stay," he whispers. "Please, Nick." He leans his forehead against the cool metal of the bed rails. "For me. Please."

He still can't say the words. He doesn't know why.

***

Collette drives him home. Halfway to his house he asks her to double back to Nick's flat. He needs to be there tonight, he thinks, to be surrounded by the scent and feel of Nick's life. Collette just whips the Sandero through a primary school car park and heads back up Chalcot Road. It's dark when they pull up beside Nick's flat, but Harry still out of habit does a quick check for paps and fans before he opens the door. 

"Want me to come in with you, love?" Collette leans across the front seat, peering up at him as he slides out. 

Harry shakes his head. "You need rest, too, you know." She looks worn out; her hair's pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck, and the circles under her eyes are puffy and dark. "You'll be at hospital tomorrow?" 

"Afternoon," Collette says. "I've a meeting with a producer, and the ward sister says it's better for them if we come by later in the day."

Harry nods. He wants to go inside and fall into the comfort of Nick's sofa. Collette waits for him to open Nick's door, the bright beams of the headlamps cutting through the shadows that stretch across the pavement. As he steps into the foyer, there's a shriek, and the sitting room lights flash on. Harry's so tired he just blinks.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Harry, you scared the shit out of me." Aimee's in front of him, brandishing an umbrella like a sabre, the pointed tip angled towards Harry's balls. Pig bounds towards him, her leash dragging across the polished wood floors that Nick loves. 

"Didn't know anyone was here." Harry kneels down to catch Pig. She jumps up on him, cheerfully nuzzling his neck, and he doesn't even care that her front paws are a bit wet still. 

Aimee sets the umbrella back in the stand beside the front door. "I came over this afternoon for Pig," she says. "Sadie'd dropped her off last night before we knew." Aimee bites her lip. "She didn't hear until this morning, and then she was halfway to Sheffield to see Raffi's gig tonight. I thought I'd stay here tonight so she didn't worry. Pig had made a bit of a mess on her doggy bed when I arrived."

"I can imagine." Harry scratches behind Pig's left ear, unhooking her leash and letting it fall to the floor. She leans against him, her stocky body solid and warm as her tail thumps against the floor. "Does Raffi know?"

"Sadie wasn't going to tell him until after the gig, but he heard on the radio. He called earlier." Aimee sits on the edge of one of the white sofas. "He's pretty torn up."

We all are, Harry wants to say, but she already knows. Instead he presses his face to Pig's side, letting her squirm closer. Aimee crosses her legs, her dark eyes fixed on him in a way Harry finds unsettling. She's kept her hair blonde since he last saw her, although there's a pale pink streak on one side. He likes it. 

"You okay?" she asks after a moment. 

Harry shrugs. 

"That's not an answer." Aimee picks up Pig's leash and sets it on the side table on top of a vintage copy of Madonna's _Sex_ that Harry had given Nick last Christmas.

Pig drapes herself across Harry's lap, her head on Harry's thigh. He strokes her back. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"The truth?"

Harry looks away, towards the glass doors leading to the garden and their long stretch of inky blackness broken by faint city lights. He can see himself reflected in them, the glow of the sitting room lamp behind him, his back against the heavy black lacquer trunk between the two sofas. "It was hard," he says finally. "Seeing him like that. It's not--" He hesitates."It doesn't feel like Nick, you know?" Pig licks the back of Harry's hand, then settles again with a grumble in the back of her throat. Harry toes his trainers off. They flop to the floor with a soft thump. He sighs and glances back at Aimee. "I'm fine, I guess, but I'm not okay, if that makes sense."

Aimee nods. "You want company tonight?"

"Ian needs you, I'm sure."

He gets a level look from her. "Not if you need me more."

Harry wants to say yes, but he can't. There's a part of him that doesn't want comfort or distraction, that only wants to wallow in the essence of Nick. "I'll be all right," he says instead. "Pig's here, yeah?" Pig turns adoring eyes on him and wriggles into a sitting position so she can lick the tip of his nose. Harry smiles a real smile for the first time since yesterday, and she gives him a happy bark.

"Okay," Aimee says, obviously hesitant. "But I'll make you a sandwich first." When Harry starts to object, she clucks at him. "I'm from New York, Harold. Things like this happen, and we push food on you. It's what we do, so don't argue with me."

He doesn't.

When she sets a plate of sandwich and crisps in front of him, along with one of the Diamond lagers Nick carts down from Manchester every so often, Harry realises how hungry he is. He hasn't eaten since the plane, and that was somewhere over the North Atlantic. The sandwich is huge, with layers of rare roast beef and proper cheddar, and it tastes like heaven. 

"Sadie left the roast in the fridge for Nick last night," Aimee says, her bag in hand. "Leftovers from Sunday brunch." Her voice breaks slightly, and she looks away, swallowing hard. "Bastard would have complained all day about the calories."

Harry catches her hand. "He'll be okay," he says, echoing Jane's uncertain promise to him earlier. They're only words, meaningless and trite, but the wavery smile Aimee gives him is genuine. Sometimes, he thinks, you have to hear the platitudes. You can't manage to go on if you don't. It hurts too much to face the truth.

Aimee bends over and kisses Harry's cheek. "Thank you," she whispers, and she squeezes his hand. Her eyes are bright. Harry knows she's only holding herself together for him. Part of him wishes she wouldn't. He needs the others to fall apart too, to give him permission to shatter alongside them, to wail and rage against whatever hateful deity that would take Nick away from the people who love him. 

They won't though. None of them will. They'll all keep it tight inside, holding it back until they're alone and it's safe to scream their grief into a pillow. 

"Ring me if you need me, yeah?" Aimee lets her hand slide from Harry's. She pulls her bag onto her shoulder.

"I will," he promises. They both know he won't. 

The flat's quiet when Aimee leaves. Harry finishes eating, then he washes his plate in the sink and sets it aside to dry. He gives Pig a few treats--more than she needs, but he feels sorry for her--and checks his phone as he sits cross-legged and barefoot on the floor beside her. There are more messages from his mum and Jeff and each of the boys has rung up at least once. Simon's even left a voice mail. He doesn't listen to any of them, but he calls his mum anyway. Anne picks up on the first ring, her voice heavy with worry. He tells her about the hospital, and she listens, leaving him space for the few tears that break through. Anne doesn't insist things will be fine; instead she says she loves him and she loves Nick and she's so very, very sorry, and it's exactly what he needs to hear from her. And when Robin takes the phone from Anne to tell Harry gruffly that they'll come down, all he needs to do is say the word, Harry knows he has the best family he could ask for.

When he hangs up, he feels a bit better. Enough, even, to text a pink heart and _will call l8r_ to Gem and to make a few more phone calls to arrange rooms at the Hotel Indigo near St Mary's for Nick's family, laying down his black AmEx for the charges. He texts the details to Liv because he knows of all of them she won't try to object to him putting them up. She texts back three purple heart emojis followed by _shd say u didn't have 2, but not keen 2 sleep in chairs 2night_. Harry texts back a thumbs up and a sleeping face emoji, then puts his phone down. He's exhausted. 

Pig pads behind him to the bath, her claws clicking against the wide wooden floorboards. He should get those clipped, Harry thinks. Nick's always afraid to trim Pig's claws, terrified that he'll draw blood or hurt her, so they end up growing too long, until one of his friends--usually Harry or Collette--finally takes Pig into the groomer's. Harry doesn't bother with a shower; he just cleans his teeth and washes the grime of London and the lingering sickly-sweet hospital smell off his face and hands. He stops to sniff Nick's face cream, inhaling the rich freshness of verbena before he smoothes some across his jaw and over his cheeks. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine Nick behind him, whinging into the mirror about the wrinkles around his eyes. A wave of sadness washes over Harry, and he grips the edge of the sink. Pig rubs against his leg, and she whines softly. Harry opens his eyes and studies his reflection, the hollow emptiness of his eyes, the pallor of his cheeks. He looks like shit, but he doesn't care. It doesn't matter. 

Nick's bed is still rumpled and half-made from when he left it Thursday morning for work. He'd rung Harry up then; it'd been almost nine at night, LA time. They'd talked about Birmingham and the Big Weekend. Nick had joked that it was terrible that One Direction weren't on tour yet as they could have shagged in the green room toilets the way they had during Glasgow's Big Weekend three years back. Harry'd offered, half-seriously, to fly over anyway. Nick hesitated for just a moment, and Harry thought Nick might have said yes, but then he laughed it off with a too bright comment about all the California pussy Harry would miss eating out if he did something that ridiculous. 

The thing is, Harry would have come back. If Nick had asked, Harry would have caught the next flight out of LAX, no questions asked. Nick knows this. And if Harry had, maybe Nick wouldn't be lying in hospital tonight, a ventilator breathing for him. 

Harry slides out of his shirt, then his trousers, and sits on the side of the bed in his pants, the soft mattress dipping beneath his bare thighs. Pig hops up beside him, settling on the purple chenille throw wadded at the foot of the bed. She nudges Harry's hand, and he pets her, his fingers sliding beneath her collar the way she likes. "Hey," Harry says to her. "You miss him too, yeah?"

Pig barks and pulls the blanket further up the bed with her teeth. Nick would have a fit, Harry thinks with a faint smile. Not enough to throw her off the bed, of course. Pig's far too spoilt for that. 

Harry stretches out on top of the the duvet. Pig curls up against him, half on Harry, half on the chenille blanket. The bed still smells like Nick, and Harry pulls one of the thick pillows close, wrapping his arms tight around it. It's not Nick, but it's the best he can have right now. 

It takes hours before he slides into sleep.

***

As soon as he rolls out of bed, Harry books a cab to take him to St Mary's in the afternoon. After he eats and walks Pig to the top of Primrose Hill, his hair tucked up in a Dodgers baseball cap and his bloodshot eyes hidden behind a pair of Nick's largest sunglasses, he spends the morning tidying up. It keeps his worry at bay a bit to straighten the duvet, wipe down the bath, and sweep the kitchen. He calls Gemma and Louis, assuring them he's all right, though he's pretty certain neither of them believe him. They both want to come over, but he tells them he's on his way to see Nick shortly, so not to bother. Gem takes it better than Louis, but Harry manages to ring off with a promise to be in touch later this evening. Already worn out, he turns on Nick's stereo as he showers, letting the Rolling Stones echo through the flat whilst he stands under hot, pounding water and breathes in the steam. He almost expects Nick to draw the shower door open and step in behind him, his mouth finding the nape of Harry's neck. 

It doesn't happen, of course, but Harry can't stop thinking about all the times Nick's pressed him against the cool white tile, fingers slick with lube sliding through the crease of Harry's arse. Harry would time his showers sometimes to when he knew Nick would be walking in the door from work, just so he'd find Harry naked and wet and half-hard already from fantasising about the burn of Nick's cock as it filled him. 

Harry can't help himself. He's sick, he thinks, doing this whilst Nick's laid up in hospital, but he can _feel_ Nick's hands on his hips, the soft scratch of Nick's hairy chest against his back, the bite of Nick's teeth along the curve of his neck. His cock's hard and red, curving towards his belly already, and Harry's fingers pull at the hot foreskin, slide down along the wet shaft. His other hand splays across the cool tile, and he tugs his prick, faster and harder, his breath sharp, short sobs that finally catch into a deep groan as his spunk splatters stripes across the back of the shower. 

His whole body shakes. Harry's legs give out, and he finds himself on the shower floor, warm water pouring over him, watching his come slowly wash away. He hates himself for a moment, profoundly and deeply, for losing control like this. It's ridiculous, he knows. But that doesn't stop the sharp pinch of guilt and shame. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, the way he'd been taught by the odd but kind child therapist his mum had taken him to briefly after the divorce, letting the hostile, overwhelming voices in his head drift away, consumed by the sound of water against tile. 

The water's cold by the time he pushes himself to his feet. He towels off and dresses in a pair of his jeans and one of Nick's ridiculously floral soft cotton shirts, then walks Pig again (still in the baseball cap and sunglasses) before he makes another sandwich just as the the cab arrives. He eats it en route, watching Primrose Hill slide into Paddington. It's a three-mile drive that he could have walked in less than an hour if he were a normal Londoner. Sometimes he hates how visible his fame has made him. He's twenty-three years old, and he can't step foot outside without assuming there'll be someone snapping his photo from a corner. Gem says there are even barely visible iPhone pics on Twitter this morning from the St Mary's car park as he and Collette climbed into Billy's shitty car last night. It's the price he pays for a career that he, if he's honest, loves, but he has to admit it has its drawbacks. He balls the cling film he'd wrapped his sandwich in and wonders how long it'll take before he gets sniffed out at Nick's flat. Louis'd already warned Harry that he might want to think about taking Pig over to his own house. 

"It's only five, ten minutes away, Haz," Louis said. "And Grimmy's in hospital. It's not as if you're abandoning him or anything."

Then why does the thought of it feel that way? 

Harry bins the cling film and ignores the two paps standing outside the hospital entrance, even when they call his name. The cab drives off before the paps can scurry over to it; Harry's made sure to pay extra in the hopes the cabbie will keep mum about where he picked Harry up. It'll come out soon enough, and maybe Louis's right. 

The hospital gift shop is warm and cosy, filled with all sorts of comfortable tat one might--or might not--need to make one's stay less clinical. Harry picks out a small box of chocolates and a thick red shawl that's soft and cushy. The girl at the till blushes when he hands her a few bank notes, and then asks him for a picture. He doesn't want to, but he agrees, and he tries to look if not happy then at least pleasant he leans across the counter, his hair pressed to hers, smiling into her phone. It'll hit Tumblr in ten minutes, he reckons, which will make leaving St Mary's more difficult than he expected.

Fiona's on the Valentine Ellis ward. Harry stops at the ward desk to make certain it's fine for him to visit, and the nurse on duty--a doppelgänger for the Eleventh Doctor, Harry thinks--waves him on. The curtain around Fi's bed is pulled half-shut, so Harry shakes it lightly and says, "Knock-knock," before sticking his head through. 

"Harry!" Fiona cries out, and her pupils are blown wide. Her husband's in the chair beside her, and the look James gives Harry is tired but pleased. 

"Morphine," James says. "Turns her jolly." He stands up and holds his hand out to Harry. "You okay?"

Harry's getting sick of being asked that. People are trying to be kind; he understands that. But what the hell answer is he supposed to give? The truth? _Spent half the night trying to figure out how I'm going to keep drawing breaths if next week I have to carry Nick's coffin into a church, which gave me a panic attack?_ Instead he squeezes James's hand and shrugs. "It's rough. You know." He sets the chocolate and shawl on Fiona's lap. "How's my girl?"

Fiona smiles up at him. "A bit knackered. It's hard to sleep in all this kit." She nods towards the plaster cast encasing her arm from wrist to bicep and the sling that keeps it pressed to her chest. "Could be worse though."

"Yeah." They look at each other.

"Babe," Fiona says after a moment, glancing over at her husband.They haven't even been married a year yet, Harry realises. He can't imagine how James must feel, seeing her in hospital like this. Except he can, actually, and that terrifies him more. "I'd really love a cuppa. Think you could talk them into one?"

James nods. Light from the reading lamp over the headboard glints off his glasses. "No problem. Harry? Need anything?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Harry waits as James slips past him, then he takes the chair, perching on the edge of it. "So."

"Nice man-bun," Fiona says, eyeing the messy knot Harry twisted up whilst in the lift. She's already pulling the chocolates open. She offers one to Harry. "I hate that your hair always looks better than mine, you know." 

Harry takes one that looks nougaty. "Go see Lou." 

"I can't afford Lou on my salary." Fiona licks chocolate off her thumb. She doesn't say anything for a moment, then she sighs. "Have you seen him?" 

"A bit." Harry rests his elbows on his knees. "They won't let us stay long."

Fiona just watches him. "I'm sorry," she says at last. Harry nods. She sets the chocolates aside and leans back into her pillow. "It was terrifying, you know. There wasn't anything Grim could do. One moment he was making us all sing along to Beyoncé and the next…" She looks away. Her uninjured hand twists in the sheets around her waist. "The lorry was just there, pushing us across traffic. They say you see your life flash before your eyes, but it wasn't anything like that. For me, at least. It was just...being really afraid that the Met would show up at our door when James was still waiting for me to come home, yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry says. He knows what it's like to get that call now. At least James can sit in here with Fiona. At least he's not waiting to see if she'll-- He stops himself. He won't think like that. He can't. 

"Hey." Fiona takes his hand. Her fingers are hot in his. "I know I'm the lucky one. Nick and Rachael…." She closes her eyes, her hand slipping away from his, and when she opens them again, they're bright with tears. "I keep asking myself why, and I don't know. Rachael was so bloody young--" She pinches the bridge of her nose and breathes out. "I'm sorry."

A cart rattles past the curtain, headed for another patient's bed. Harry realises how different this ward sounds. No beeping machines, more quiet voices and subdued laughter. It's not Fiona's fault she's here, and it's only then he realises he was angry at her for being the one who made it relatively unscathed. Christ, he's a shit, he thinks, and he can feel his cheeks heat. He touches her thigh; she winces and he moves his hand away. 

"Don't be sorry," Harry says, his voice thick. "You didn't do anything."

A tear slips down her cheek. "Rach is dead, Harry. Collette told me when she came by. And Nick--"

"It's not your fault, Fi." Saying the words to her makes him believe them as well. It's not her fault. "Maybe this was how it's always supposed to have been, you know? Maybe it was Rachael's time. Maybe--" His voice chokes here. "Maybe it's Nick's, too."

Fiona swallows and wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. There's an IV needle taped just above her wrist. Her skin is pale without makeup, and he can see a faint dusting of light freckles across her nose. "That's pants," she says softly.

"I know. But it could be true."

"Grimmy's supposed to go from a heart attack on Ibiza when he's 90." 

Harry laughs. "Still wining and dining the younger lads."

"Only one lad, I think." Fiona eyes him shrewdly. Harry looks away. He can see a nurse through the gap in the curtain, leaning in to change an IV at the next bed. He shakes his head. 

"It's not like that."

Fiona doesn't push him. She just unfolds the red shawl, her fingers smoothing across it. "Good taste, Styles."

He helps her wrap it around her shoulders. It makes her face seem a bit brighter. "Lovely. I'd definitely chat you up if you weren't already spoken for."

"Don't be cheeky, you." Fiona looks pleased though. Her fingertips brush Harry's knuckles. "Are you going to see him next?"

"Yeah." Harry pulls away. "Not that it'll do any good."

"It might."

"Maybe." Sometimes he thinks it might. Right now, sitting here with the antiseptic smell of the hospital giving him a faint headache, he doesn't feel much hope. 

James comes back, a tea in hand. Harry leans over Fiona's bed and kisses her cheek before he takes his own leave. He's not certain how he feels, worse or better. He supposes it doesn't really matter in the end. He's a twisting, contorted mass of emotions, and he doesn't think that's going to change any time soon.

He makes his way to the ninth floor and the quiet waiting room filled with terrified Grimshaws.

***

Harry has the cab drop him off at his house. He doesn't stay long, just enough time to throw some a few extra clothes in a holdall, then he drives his Range Rover back to Nick's flat. He barely has energy to walk Pig, who's frantic to be outside even for a little bit, and Harry has to snap at her when she tries to go after a red squirrel. He feels awful afterwards, especially when she trails behind him on the leash, her tail drooping. 

When he gets back to the flat, Gemma's leaning against the bonnet of the Range Rover, her face lit up by the glow of her iPhone screen. She hugs him and says, "Liv texted and said you were on your way home an hour ago."

"Needed to walk Pig." He looks down at the dog. She's sitting on the pavement, her back to him. "I shouted at her," he says sadly.

Gemma rolls her eyes. "Stop it with the guilt, you twat, and open the door." She holds up a white plastic bag. "I brought food. Lemonia gave me takeaway when they heard it was for you, except I think it was more because of Nick than who you are." She follows Harry into the flat and directs him to the sofa whilst she heads for the kitchen. "How often do you two go there, anyway?"

"A lot." Harry sinks into the soft cushions and breathes out, then in again. When Pig hops up on the sofa, curling up next to him, Harry feels forgiven. He scratches beneath her front leg, and she whimpers in delight, rolling towards him, her belly face up. 

Gem hands him a plate piled with moussaka and tabouleh and tells him the photo of him in the gift shop is going around Twitter. 

"They're mostly nice about it," she says, settling cross-legged on the floor in front of him, her plate of souvlaki balanced on one knee. "Lots of worried comments about how tired you look."

"What are they saying about Nick?" he asks through a mouthful of aubergine and potatoes. He almost doesn't want to know. Part of the reason he's kept quiet about his relationship--whatever it is, exactly--with Nick is the unfair shit some of his fans throw at him. They hate him for being Harry's friend. He doesn't want to think what they'd say if they knew he was Harry's lover.

Gemma's silent for a moment. "Not a lot. Some people are complete arseholes. You know that. But most are decent sorts." 

There's something she's not saying. "Gem."

She sighs and twists her hair around one finger. "I don't know, love. There's speculation about you being there. About you flying back and all that. You know. Why you did it and all. Sugarscape's suggesting maybe you and Nick are together, and now MailOnline's running with it." 

A bitter laugh bubbles up and dies in the back of Harry's throat. "Great." Just what he needs right now. He sets his plate aside, his hunger dissipated. Pig sniffs at it, then turns her nose up at the vegetables.

"You could stay away from St Mary's," Gemma says quietly. She shreds a cube of lamb with her fork, not looking up at him. 

Harry doesn't even hesitate. "You know I can't."

"I know." Gemma sighs again. She puts her fork down. "People're going to talk, love. The _Chronicle_ rang up Mum today to ask her if you and Nick were dating."

"What'd she say?" Harry can't help the shot of fear that goes through him. It's ridiculous. His mum would never out him. Des might, if he knew, but Anne? Never.

Gemma snorts. "Told 'em to naff off, didn't she? Then gave 'em Simon's office number and said to ask him if they had any questions about you."

Harry does laugh this time. His mum's always harassing SyCo. It gives her joy. "She must have liked that."

"Well enough." Gemma's quick smile fades. "She's worried about you. So's Eileen, you know. They've been talking. Mum thinks you should tell everyone about you and Nick."

"Tell them what?" Harry feels his face heat up. His throat is tight and raw again. "That we're just best friends who fuck when I'm home?"

"Harry." Gemma gives him the Older Sister look that always irritates him, the one that says she's so much older and wiser in the ways of the world and if he'd only _listen_ to her he'd realise it as well. "He wakes up on Christmas morning at Mum's and then the both of you go spend Christmas dinner and Boxing Day at Pete and Eileen's. Our parents have each other's phone numbers--and _use_ them. He's the first person you want to see when you come home from tour. For Christ's sake, you steal his clothes from his closet, take them halfway across the world just so you can have a piece of him with you, and he doesn't even complain. If that's not love, I don't know what is. I turn into a raving cow when my roommate borrows my favourite scarf without asking to walk down to the High Street shops."

An embarrassed warmth rushes through Harry, and he leans over to press his cheek against Pig's flank. She snuffles and kicks him in the nose. It hurts a bit. "He doesn't," Harry says.

"Love you?" Gemma raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. Harry hates her for a moment. "Don't be an idiot, Haz. You're not _that_ thick."

Harry flips her two fingers. "He's never said it," he says into Pig's fur.

"And you have?"

He gives her a baleful look over Pig's thumping tail. Gemma just shrugs and holds a piece of lamb out to Pig who snatches it eagerly out of her fingers. "You're going to give her gas," Harry says. "Remember Easter? We all had to evacuate Mum's lounge, it was so eye-watering?" 

Gemma throws her head back and cackles. "Nick was mortified."

"I _told_ him not to feed her from the table," Harry says, a smile tugging at his lips. He sits up. "You know he actually wrote an apology note to Mum and Robin, yeah?"

"Mum showed it to me." Gemma wipes her thumb across the corner of one eye. "She was charmed that he'd apologize for--how'd he put it?--canine flatulence?" She scoots closer to the sofa and rests her shoulder against Harry's knee, looking up at him. "She adores Nick, you know. Even more than she liked Taylor, and she was narked at you for two months for cocking that up."

Harry's surprised. "Was she?" His mum hadn't ever let on. 

Gemma nods. She twists her hair up into a ponytail then holds out a hand. Harry pulls the elastic from his own hair and hands it to her. He's grateful for the hair tumbling into his face, hiding his sister from view for a moment. He brushes it back, then sighs. 

"That was because of Nick, you know. Taylor realised that we were…" He trails off, his face heating again.

"Shagging like you were both just devirginised?" The Older Sister look appears again, and Harry scowls at her. "Darling, I'm fairly certain the whole country realised that around then as well. Have you ever actually looked at the pap photos of the two of you? You _glow._ Both of you. It's bloody sickening." Gemma picks her plate up again and takes another bite of souvlaki. "Best mates, my arse," she says through a mouthful of lamb. "I don't even look at my boyfriends the way you two gaze into each other's eyes. _Ugh._ "

Harry throws a bright blue cushion at her. It grazes her pile of tzatziki, smearing the thick yoghurt across one raw silk corner and causing Harry to push Pig up and run for the kitchen, nearly upsetting his plate of moussaka in the process. 

"Nick's going to kill you when he gets back." Gemma laughs as Harry scrubs at the spot with a wet tea towel. Harry stops, his heart clenching and his breath catching as a wave of panic hits him. He doesn't know what his face looks like, but Gemma reaches for him, her smile slipping into worry. "Haz," she says, and Harry lets his sister pull him down to the floor with her, cradling him close. "Oh, love. He'll get back. I know he will."

"You don't." Harry shakes his head against the soft touch of her hand smoothing over his cheek. "You can't promise me that."

Gemma kisses the top of his head, just like she did when they were little and Harry would throw himself onto her bed in tears because their mum and dad were shouting again. "I can hope it, love. So can you." She looks down at him, her face soft and gentle. "Let's hope it, and maybe it'll happen."

Harry nods, even though he doesn't believe her, not really. It's easier to believe in hope when you're not the one lying in bed alone at night, terrified. He pulls away, leaning his back against the sofa, his knees tucked to his chest. "Okay."

His sister settles next to him. "Promise me you'll tell him how you feel, though. When he's awake again."

"Okay," Harry says again. He feels a bit numb inside, and he only says it to make Gem feel better. She's too worried about him; he can tell by the way she cuts her eyes to him. He picks up the remote for Nick's television. 

"Put it on 4Music," Gemma says. "The Kardashians are on--" At Harry's sideways glance, she pops a hand against her mouth. "Forgot, sorry." 

"Really, Gem." He keeps looking at her, unblinking. 

Gemma smacks his shoulder. "In my defence, you dated her for two seconds. And Nick doesn't care. We both cheer Khloé on, you know. We just don't watch in front of you so we don't hurt your delicate man-feelings whenever Kendall slithers onscreen."

"Fuck off," Harry says, but something warm settles in his chest. He puts it on ITV. "Compromise on Corrie?"

"Fair enough." Gemma leans against him, her head on his shoulder. 

Harry feels grounded for the first time since he left L.A.

***

Over the next few days Harry falls into a rhythm. Mornings are spent with Pig and whichever of Nick's friends has stopped by the flat (on Sadie and Aimee's orders, they all say cheerfully) with a bag of food for the day--either homemade or from Waitrose's prepared section. (Never Sainsbury's. The whole clique refuses to shop there ever again.) In the afternoon he's at hospital, visiting Fi, at least until she's discharged on Thursday, four days post-accident, and waiting for those precious five minutes he's allowed to spend at Nick's bedside. The day Fiona goes home, no one's allowed into the critical care unit. Harry sits, tense and anxious with the Grimshaws, until a tired doctor comes out at half-ten and tells them Nick's stable again. There'd been some more bleeding, this time in his brain, but they'd caught it, even if it was touch-and-go for a bit. The poor woman's surprised by Eileen, who hugs her tight. They can't see him yet, but Dr Narayan assures them he'll be fine and they should all go sleep. Harry doesn't know if he can. 

When he gets back to Nick's, there's something beside the steps leading down to the flat, along the iron fence. Someone's propped up an ancient copy of Joy Division's _Unknown Pleasures_ , the album cover faded and worn behind the plastic wrapped carefully around it. There's a stuffed bear wearing a t-shirt that someone's written _#TeamGrimmy_ on in red Sharpie, and two small bouquets of flowers. 

Harry takes a picture and sends it to Jane and Liv, with a note for them to show Pete and Eileen. He thinks about moving the lot of it inside, but he stops. They're meant to be here, realises. Other people need to grieve as well, people who've never met Nick, who know him only as that twat on the radio or a judge on the X-Factor or someone who's been kind enough to stop for a selfie with them, even as he's hurrying off to somewhere else. There's a part of Nick that extends past his family and friends and even Harry, a part of him that makes other people feel even a fraction of the pain that Harry's experiencing. 

Before his practical side can stop him, Harry posts the photo to Instagram, with a _thnx, London_ , followed by a string of red hearts and folded hands. It cross-posts to Twitter, and Harry tucks his iPhone back into his pocket as he heads inside the flat.

He sleeps in late the next morning. By the time he comes out with Pig trailing behind him on her leash, the small collection of flowers has exploded. There are at least twenty bouquets now, most still in their florist's plastic, and a few notes, written on fluttering paper, are tied to the fence. Harry stops to read them. _Miss you on radio, Grim--quick recovery in our thoughts!_ and _Get better faster, Grimmy! xoxoxoxo_ and longer ones that say how much Nick means to the writer and others that are nothing but hilarious sketches of Nick's quiff. Harry takes picture after picture of them, sending each one to Jane's phone. A flash in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he looks over to see a pap a few houses down. Harry doesn't even have it in him to be angry. He just turns and walks away, taking Pig down the road and up onto Primrose Hill as usual. He stops the top of the ridge, looking down across London over to the City's tall buildings in the distance. Pig glances over her shoulder, then trots back to him and sits at his feet. Harry turns, taking in the view around him. One of his first date-not-dates with Nick had been here, an impromptu August picnic with some of the clique, and Nick had dared him to wear that ridiculous flesh suit.

"Your da's an arsehole sometimes, you know," he says with a faint smile to Pig, and she just barks and jumps up on him, pawing at his belt loops. He drops down the grass with Pig and lets her lick his face and squirm across him before she flops on his other side, snuffling happily. Harry stares up at the clouds that drift across the blue sky. He can hear people nearby, and he knows he should get up and walk away from any possible camera lenses, but he doesn't want to. The sun's warm against his skin, and Pig's here, and if he closes his eyes he can imagine Nick sitting beside him, knees at his chest, looking out over the city they both love. Harry moves one hand over the grass, and his breath catches when his fingers hit trainers. He opens his eyes. 

"Hey," Collette says, and she sits down next to him, just where Harry'd imagined Nick sitting. She's in shorts and a _Got the balls for netball?_ shirt. "Thought you might be here with Pig."

Harry pushes Nick's sunglasses up onto his forehead. "Your turn for food?"

Collette shrugs. A breeze ruffles her hair. "They're not wrong, you know. You need to eat, and that hospital café's not brilliant." 

"I know." Harry looks back up at the sky, his hand behind his head, the grass soft beneath his wrist The sun's bright without the sunglasses protecting his eyes. "It's just hard sometimes, like I've a lot of bossy mums fussing over me. And Henry's the worst."

"Henry was born to be a bossy mum," Collette says with a laugh. "It makes him a good designer." She looks down at Harry. "Besides, you know none of us can do a bloody thing for Grim right now. So if we can turn all that on you…" She sighs. "It means something to everyone, love. We all adore Grimmy, and it's hard not to even be let in to see him."

Harry hasn't really thought about it that way. He's lucky, he knows. The Grimshaws have insisted that Harry be allowed into critical care. He hadn't considered the rest of Nick's friends. Even Collette's had to wait outside. Harry's the only one who's been treated like family. He pulls the sunglasses off his forehead. "Bit like the flowers at Nick's flat, then. Makes people feel better to leave something there."

"A bit, yeah." Collette stretches out on the grass. "People are funny when things like this happen. They don't always do the right thing, but they try."

"I reckon." Harry rolls onto his side, facing her. "Does it upset you, not being allowed in when I am? You've known him for ages. You're practically his other mum. I mean, you've actually lived with him. Officially."

Collette gives him a scrunched up smile. "You have as well. Unofficially. And I'm not that old, love."

"Don't deflect," Harry says, and Collette looks away. 

"They mean well. It's family only, as it should be. Wouldn't want the lot of us in there with him, crowding the place up and making it hard for the staff. That's the problem with having as many friends as Grim does." She squeezes Harry's hand. 

"I'm not family."

Collette sits up, and Harry follows her. "You might as well be, Harold. We all know that. It's right, you being the one of us to see him. We all agree." She holds her hand out to Pig, who climbs over Harry's legs to get to her.

"There's a group text that I'm not on, isn't there?" Harry asks drily. 

"Something like that." Collette cuddles Pig, untangling her leash from Harry's wrist. "And we're worried about you as well."

"I know." Harry sighs. He rubs the back of Pig's ears as she plops down between them and stares back up at the sky. 

He's a bit worried about himself too.

***

Harry convinces Collette to come with him to St Mary's. He needs her, he says, and he does. He can't explain why, and she doesn't ask him to. She also doesn't bother to change clothes; she just hops into the passenger's side of Harry's Range Rover after they settle Pig inside. There's still a pap on the corner, but they both ignore him. Harry's sure there'll be some photo of him looking grim in the Mail Online by evening. He's stopped caring. 

In the car park at hospital his phone pings. _U around 2night? @ Grimmy's?_ Louis texts, and Harry sends back _yeah y?_ A okay-fingers emoji shows up on his screen followed by a winky face. Harry shakes his head and slides his phone back in his pocket. 

They're alone in the waiting room. Jane'd texted Harry earlier that she was going to let her parents and Liv nap whilst she and Andy walked down to Hyde Park. They needed to get out of hospital for a bit. Harry doesn't blame them. Sitting here hour after hour is soul-wearying. He stretches his legs out in front of him and closes his eyes, listening to Collette rustle through a magazine or twenty. He doesn't even know when he slips into sleep.

A sharp nudge wakes him, and Harry yawns wide, looking over at Collette. She nods towards a ward nurse, standing in the doorway. 

"Mr Styles?" he says, and Harry sits up. "If you'd like to come back?"

Harry's on his feet already. He holds a hand out to Collette. "Come on."

"Are you joking?" she asks, a furrow between her brows. "I can't--"

"Come on." Harry catches her hand and hefts her out of the chair. He looks over at the ward nurse. "Miss Cooper'll be joining me today."

The nurse looks like he wants to protest, but one glance at Harry's set jaw and he holds the door for both of them, waiting as they sanitise their hands. Harry leads Collette deeper into the ward, the beeps and whooshes of the machinery following them. He puts her in the chair beside Nick's bed, then he takes another from an empty bed and sits across from her, Nick between them, his head now swathed in thick white bandages, what's left of his hair hidden from sight. 

Collette can't take her eyes off Nick. Harry bites his lip, watching her face. A tear slips from the corner of one eye, trailing over her cheek and falling from her chin. "Oh, love," she chokes out. "Don't you look a dreadful fright?" She looks at Harry. "He's going to be livid about his hair."

Harry laughs softly. "I think they were more concerned about the bleeding on his brain than his vanity."

"They obviously don't know Grim." Collette strokes a finger along Nick's stubbly cheek, cooing. Harry doesn't have the heart to tell her that's forbidden. Instead he glances over her shoulder to make sure the nurse isn't looking their way. He's not. "Needs a good shave, our boy does. Haven't seen him this far gone in donkey's years. Well, except for a holiday here and there."

Harry touches Nick's left hand, letting his finger smooth across Nick's knuckles. There's something intimate about the gesture, even in front of Collette. He watches the even rise and fall of Nick's chest beneath the hospital gown. He's almost used to Nick like this, in bandages and plaster casts and plastic tubes, and he doesn't like that fact. He wants to see Nick up and about, see him juggling Pig's leash, shopping bags, and a Starbucks cup, see him sprawled across the sofa on a Friday night, Harry's head in his lap as they watch terrible telly instead of going out to Groucho's or over to a friend's for dinner. "I want him to come back to me, Collette," he says. 

"Oh, love." Collette reaches across Nick to take Harry's hand. "I know you do. It's terrible for all of us, but it's truly awful for you, isn't it, having to see him here like this?"

"Sometimes." Harry squeezes her fingers, then pulls back. He studies Nick's face. "I miss him, and I miss his cold feet beneath the duvet and how many times he'd have to stop to fix his stupid hair--"

Collette chuckles. "Better not let him hear you say that last bit."

Harry gives her a faint smile. 

And then Nick's hand moves beneath Harry's. Harry barely has time to look back at Nick before the alarms go off. Nick's eyes are open, fixed on Harry's face, and he rasps out, "Harold," before his eyes flutter closed again. 

Harry can't move. The nurse is at his side, pushing him back gently and bending over Nick, and Harry just stares at Nick, his heart in his throat. 

Collette takes his arm. "Harry," she says, as the doctors come barrelling in, but Nick opens his eyes again and he looks at Harry once more. 

"Not…" Nick breathes out heavily. "Not stupid."

The doctors are telling Collette to take Harry out, and Harry lets her lead him back into the waiting room. He sits down heavily in a chair, but all he can see are Nick's eyes and the small quirk of Nick's mouth when he'd said Harry's name. Collette's on her phone, and he can't make out what she's saying, even with her beside him. All he can think is _Nick. Nick. Nick came back. Nick came back for me._

A wide, happy smile creases his entire face.

***

The waiting room fills to overflowing with Grimshaws and Nick's friends, all chattering loudly until the nurses ask them to keep it quieter. There's a different feeling in the air, hopeful and bright, and Harry's hugged by everyone he knows. At the moment he's sat between Henry and Gells, feeling slightly shell-shocked. He doesn't even know what people are saying to him; he just hears Nick's voice saying _Harold_ over and over in his head and he can't stop beaming. 

It's after five before Dr Narayan comes out of the ward, a smile lighting up her round face. "He's doing well," she says to Pete and Eileen and a round of muted cheers. "Sleeping again, but his vitals are steady, his mind was sharp given the amount of pain medication we have him on, and there's no sign of internal bleeding. We'll be downgrading him from critical care and moving him to the trauma ward later tonight. We're not completely out of the woods yet, but I would consider this a positive step."

Relief floods through Harry, and he clings to Henry's side--or Henry clings to his, he's not certain which. All he knows is that somehow the lot of them gather downstairs in the café for a celebration of sorts, and Harry insists on paying for everyone's tea and cakes. He knows the doctor's warned them that Nick still has a way to go in recovery, but the fear of him never again waking up, of Harry never again hearing Nick's voice, never again seeing the crinkles at the corners of Nick's eyes as he looks at Harry--that fear's slipping away, sliding off Harry's shoulders like the weight of a sherpa's pack. 

Finally he tells Collette he wants to check on Pig and asks if she needs a ride back to Nick's, but she waves him off. "I'll go over to Sadie's tonight," she says, and she leans up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, darling. For everything." When she pulls back, her eyes are bright. "Now off with you before you start me scrikin' again."

Harry turns the radio up loud on the way back to Primrose Hill, and he sings along at the top of his lungs, tapping out time on the steering wheel. He doesn't give a damn who sees him. Let them snap photos of his madness all they want. He can breathe for the first time in _days._ He parks the Range Rover beneath the lamp post beside Nick's flat. Along the fence there are more bouquets and notes and stuffed animals--one what looks like Pig, he thinks. He grabs that one and tucks it beneath his arm, fumbling for his keys again.

When he opens the door to Nick's flat, he hears the loud blare of the telly--an action movie, something involving loud shouting and curses. His first thought is that he'd left the flat earlier with it on, until he distinguishes an exceptionally familiar pair of voices.

"There's no bloody way that tackle was legal, Horan."

"Oh, go cryin' to Microsoft, you smeggy knob. This ain't Doncaster."

Harry puts down his satchel and the stuffed Pig and bends to stash his keys in the side pocket before loping into the lounge where Louis and Niall are sat beside each other on one of Nick's white sofas playing FIFA 17 on a slightly battered Xbox that Harry recognises from a year's worth of backstages.

Louis spots him first, dropping the controller to the side and half standing up. His look of intense concern tugs at Harry's heart in a way he thought wasn't possible any longer. Under all of the snark and cynicism, Louis's ability to care about him always surprises him, no matter how things ended between them years ago. 

Niall is the first to hug him though, tackling him over the back of the sofa with a rumbly growl, and Harry lets him, even if Niall's trainers leave a mark on the upholstery. Louis comes in after, snaking his way from the side and winding his lean arms around Harry's waist. Harry lets go for a moment, unthinking, raw, beyond exhausted, but safe with his lads. Pig bounces around their feet, barking at them and leaping up, wanting to get into the action. 

"How'd you wankers get in here?" Harry asks against Louis's shoulder.

Niall just snorts into Harry's hair. "Lou pestered Pix by text until she came by and unlocked the door on her way to hospital." 

"Did not," Louis says. "Just pointed out she might not want all the paps in London descending on Grim's flat if we were pounding on the door like bloody fools, now would she?"

Harry's laugh is choked off by a wave of weariness, but he squeezes his arms around both his lads, hoping they know how glad he is they're here.

They're a little awkward as they disengage, all shuffled feet and eyes averted. That's when the scent of chicken overpowers Louis's aftershave. 

"Nando's!" Harry says, and Niall nods reverently, gesturing to the table, laden with takeaway bags.

"We didn't know what you'd like, so we got everything." Niall cracks a cautious grin.

Louis nods to a row of bottled lager beside the bags. "Liam contributed the beer. He'd be here, but he's still off in Majorca with Soph." He glances at Niall. "Make sure he Paypals you this time. Wanker always manages to get out of paying for shit."

Niall nods.

Harry's stomach grumbles, and he realises he's actually hungry for the first time all week. Now that he knows Nick is back, he can actually eat. He heads towards the pile of paper bags.

A hand on his arm holds him back. When he turns, Louis's blue-green eyes are so very bright up close. "Is there any news?"

Harry's face splits into a huge smile, and he realises he actually has something to celebrate. "Yeah, there is. He woke up."

The next bit is a bit of a blur. Harry realises he's crying as he tells them what the doctor said, and then Niall and Louis are holding him up. Louis clings to his side as Niall pushes them both into the chicken. Then he has a chicken butterfly in his hands, and they're eating on the sofa all piled together. The chicken is amazing, and Harry's still sniffling a bit as he bites into his food. Although that might also be from the extra-hot peri-peri sauce Niall's slathered it with.

Pig's watching him from her bed against the mirrored wall, and Harry realises he hasn't taken her out yet. When he starts to get up, Niall waves him back. "Already done it, Haz. Took the little lady out for a proper walk, we did. Even played a bit of catch, didn't we?"

Louis snorts into a chicken thigh. "What Niall means is he used her to flirt with some girl in the park."

"Worked too." Niall stuffs bread into his mouth. "Gonna give her a ring this weekend, see if she'd like to go eat.”

"Or summat," Harry says, and Niall winks at him. 

After the top of the coffee table trunk is filled with empty, greasy boxes and wadded paper serviettes, Harry lets Louis stroke his hair whilst Niall plays FIFA solo with Harry's feet in his lap. Louis mutters commentary, and Harry snuggles into his lap and dozes off.

He wakes with a blanket thrown over him, contorted into some kind of sleep pretzel. Niall and Louis are still there, beers open and bottles on the floor. Niall is two goals ahead with a few minutes left, and Louis has the look of an executioner. Harry gets up and goes to the loo, washing his face and moisturizing with Nick's face cream. He feels better, even after only an hour of rest. Some enormous part of his existence has slid back into place, and he's weightless and grateful with joy.

When his phone chirps and Zayn's face shows up on his screen, Harry's in the bedroom changing clothes. He answers the call with a _hey, man_ as he pulls one of Nick's t-shirt over his head. 

"Haz," Zayn says. "Heard you had good news today."

"Travels fast, does it?" Harry sits on the bed, his back against the headboard. He keeps his voice low. Two years down the road, and Louis and Zayn are still tense around each other. He doesn't want to set anything off tonight. 

Zayn laughs. "Liam texted. Evidently Nialler texted _him_ a little bit ago." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is a little sad. "How's things?"

"All right," Harry says. "Nick's awake."

"Yeah." The connection crackles a bit, then Zayn says, "That's great, man."

"Yeah." Harry falls silent for a moment. He looks around the room. He's fucked here, slept here, cried here. Nick's put the flat on the market, then taken it off again, still looking for that perfect place to buy. To live in. Harry wonders if maybe it's always been this one. 

"Haz?"

"I'm here." Harry digs his toes into the chenille throw at the foot of the bed. It's covered in Pig's hair; Harry'll have to get it cleaned before Nick gets home. He sighs. "I think I'm in love with him, Zayn."

Zayn laughs. "I don't think that's a secret to anyone but you."

"No," Harry says. "I mean tit over arse. Like, I don't know, man. I thought I was going to lose him, and I didn't know what I'd do with myself. I thought I'd go full-on Syd Barrett, you know? Be a recluse forever, yeah?"

"Not you." Zayn hesitates. "So what d'you want to do about it?"

Shouts come from the lounge. Harry's fairly certain Niall's scored again. "What can I do?"

"Tell him," Zayn says bluntly. "Stop being such a tosser about it. Grim needs to know he's more than a shag when you come off tour. If I was him I wouldn't've put up with that shit."

Harry pauses, then decides not to tell Zayn he's one to talk. He and Perrie have been married for a year-and-a-half now, and Zayn's conveniently forgotten how many times Perrie forgave him for his tour shenanigans. 

"I want to make it official," Harry says finally. "But there's still the last tour to make it through--"

"Last one?" Zayn asks, and Harry remembers that part's being kept under wraps for now. Ah well. It's only Zayn. 

"Yeah," he says. "They're waiting until closer to dates to announce it." He licks his bottom lip. It's dry; he should have used some of Nick's lip balm. "It's just we're all going separate ways, right? Louis's busy with his label, and we've all been wanting to do side projects for a while."

Silence reverberates down the line, and Harry almost thinks the call's failed, until Zayn says, "Well, it's good for you then, yeah? You're almost done with the madness, and you and Nick can be open about whatever this is between you two."

If only it were that easy. "The tour--"

"Oh, fuck the tour, Haz," Zayn snaps. "Fuck all of it. You're not responsible for everyone, you know. You put everyone else above yourself, and after a while, mate, you just have to let that shit go. No one's gonna care if you're shagging Grimmy. Hell, most of the press and part of the Internet thinks you're doing it already, and they're not half-wrong there, are they? So who cares what the haters think? They'll be shits on Twitter and Insta, but they already are, most of them, so yeah. Who cares but you?"

Harry sits there for a moment, stunned. "I think the lads might, if it affected ticket sales--"

"Bollocks." Zayn breathes out hard, a loud, exasperated rasp in Harry's ear. "Do you hear yourself, Haz? Not one of them would say a peep if this is what you wanted. You've spent, what, almost five years now using all of us as excuses for why you and Nick can't be out. And yeah, I think this on-again, off-again thing you have going on is weird--I mean, for fuck's sake, mate, it's bloody obvious you're both mad about each other. So just _say_ it out loud, already." 

There's a muffled voice in the background, and then Zayn says, "Perrie agrees. She says she's seen those bloody pics of you two in cabs and you--what, Per?" 

And then Perrie's on the phone. "Hazza, love, don't be ridiculous. My girls put up with Zayn--hush, babe, they do. You're just being thick if you think your boys wouldn't want you to be happy. They love you, yeah? And Grimmy makes you happy, so why wouldn't they want you to be happy?"

Zayn comes back. "She's right, you know."

"I know," Harry says. He's starting to feel oddly calm. Maybe this could work. 

"Go talk to them, then." Zayn's voice sounds warm and happy, and Harry wishes he were here so much right now. He'd understood when Zayn had left the band, but it still felt like abandonment. Still does, sometimes. Harry wants Zayn to be with him, stretched out on Nick's bed, telling him what a cockup he is. 

Harry swallows hard. "I miss you." He can't help himself, even though he knows it makes Zayn feel badly. Harry's never been good at hiding things--except his feelings from Nick, evidently. And that probably doesn't even count, given how emotionally thick Nick can be himself.

"Yeah, me too," Zayn says, voice quiet. "But you can do this, Haz. I believe in you."

"Thanks." Harry means it. 

He rings off after a few minutes and sits silently on the bed, staring at the wall. He's frightened, a bit, and feels a little like he might vom, same as he feels every time he goes out on stage, but he thinks that's just stupid of him. A few deep breaths--in, out, in, out--and he slides off the bed and heads back into the lounge. Louis and Niall are sunk into the sofa, legs cocked open, both of them looking a bit guilty-ish, phones in their hands.

Harry sighs. "Zayn texted you."

"Well, he couldn't not, could he?" Niall says. "Wanted to prep us so we didn't bugger up."

Louis scowls at Harry. "Like we'd ever tell you not to come out. Christ, Haz, you do _know_ us, yeah? We've been your best mates for seven bloody years now, you'd think you'd actually give us some credit--"

"I know," Harry says. "I'm sorry." He sits on the yellow tufted-velvet chair, the one he hates because it's angled back too far for him to get comfortable, and he feels awkward sprawled out like this. "So you're okay if Nick and I…" He trails off, a bit overcome by it all.

"Harry," Louis says, his voice gentling. "Yeah. We're good." 

Niall nods. "Liam too. He's thought you should for a while."

Harry laughs and rubs the back of his head, his fingers tangling in his hair. "God, you must all think I'm thick."

"Pretty much," Niall says, and he elbow-blocks the cushion Harry throws at him. 

"Nick might say no." Harry bites his thumbnail. He hasn't forgotten he's not the only one who's opinion matters in this. 

Louis shrugs. "Might, but I wager he won't. He's put up with this for years, and the only times he's turned away are when you did first, and Christ, Harry, listen to me. I'm defending Grimshaw, for fuck's sake. What has the world come to?"

That makes Harry laugh again. "It's the apocalypse." He pushes himself out of the chair and stumbles over to the sofa, dropping between Louis and Niall. He leans his head on Louis' shoulder. "You're all right with this?"

"Don't really have a choice, do I?" Louis says, bumping his forehead against Harry's. "Want you to be happy. Now can I go back to wiping the field with Niall's arse, or do you have another stupid question for us?"

"Go on with it," Harry says and ends up with Niall's sharp elbow in his side. 

"Bell-ends." Niall leans forward, controller in hand. "The both of you." He unpauses the game.

Harry settles back between his lads, more relaxed than he's been in ages.

***

The next three weeks are a blur for Harry. Nick spends another ten days on the major trauma ward before the doctors are willing to move him into the more exclusive Lindo Wing with its private rooms with en suites. Harry's not certain what delights Nick more, the fact that he has a bath to himself or the fact that he's in the same part of the hospital in which the Duchess of Cambridge gave birth to the future King George and Princess Charlotte. 

"This might have been Kate's room," a stoned-on-painkillers Nick tells anyone who comes in, despite the fact that the maternity ward isn't even on his floor. No one bothers to point that out to him; it seems cruel to take away this slight joy.

Nick won’t talk about Rachael. Not really. There’d been a memorial service for her just after Nick had woken up, and Harry’d attended with Fiona and Victoria Easton because Nick asked him to go in his place. But the few times afterwards that Harry’d brought her up, Nick had shaken his head, wincing, and said, “I can’t, Harry,” with a broken catch in his voice. Harry hasn’t pushed it. Nick’ll talk when he’s ready. He takes things hard, and Harry knows that having one of Nick’s favourite interns die when he was behind the wheel has to be tearing him up.

Dev and Matt Edmondson have been covering for Nick in the mornings, switching days so they can still keep their weekend slots. Harry and the boys talk to Simon and have the tour start date pushed back to January, but Simon guilts Harry into taking on Nick's X-Factor duties in exchange, at least until Nick can make it back in autumn--if he can. The whole deal leads to speculation in the press, particularly since Harry's papped a lot between Nick's flat and the brick and marble entrance to the Lindo Wing, but Harry doesn't care. He has his people refuse to comment rather than to deny when asked about his relationship with Nick, which fuels more rumours online. That'd been Louis's idea. "Let the fans start to percolate it a bit," he'd said. "Get them used to the possibility, especially whilst Nick's laid up. Makes 'em look like wankstains if they shit on him. The decent ones will police the arseholes."

So far it's worked. Mostly. Harry's given up on reading any comments or @-replies on his social media accounts. It's better for his blood pressure. There are more arseholes out there than he'd like to think.

Jane and Liv and Andy are back to work and school, though they take the train down on weekends to see Nick. Pete and Eileen have stayed, and Harry's put them up in his house, giving them the run of the place whilst he stays at Nick's flat. He's more comfortable surrounded by Nick's things than his own. 

When Nick's moved over to Lindo, Harry spends most of his days with him, sprawled over the large apple-green armchair beside Nick's bed. Collette watches Pig, either at her flat or dropping her by Sadie's when she comes to hospital. Harry doesn't have a chance to talk to Nick about anything serious, partially because Nick's higher than Harry's ever seen him before (evidently morphine is incredibly effective in Nick's system) and partially because they're never bloody alone. If it isn't a nurse coming in to check Nick's vitals, or a doctor coming by to see how Nick's plethora of broken bones are healing, it's one of the clique dropping by--"just for a moment, darlings, I know you're resting!"--or one of the far-flung crew of people Nick's worked with over the years. (The first afternoon Nick was able to receive visitors Matt Fincham, Fiona and Victoria stopped by together with an enormous stuffed bear they'd had someone sew a quiff on, and Harry'd been astounded to see Finchy tear up a bit when he laid eyes on Nick.) Harry's a bit grateful for the flow of visitors, if he's honest. He's still uncertain about what to say to Nick, how to bring how he feels up in small talk. The most meaningful convo they've had so far has been Nick fretting over the long and wide scars he'll have over his right hip and down his leg, the one that was crushed in the accident and has been pieced back together with titanium screws and plates. His pelvis is broken on that side as well, in one place, and the doctors have reset it with more titanium. Harry'd managed to cheer Nick up by pointing out he basically has the equivalent of Iron Man below his waist, which Nick scoffed at, but Harry caught him eyeing his casted leg speculatively an hour later, so he thinks the coolness factor of a virtually titanium appendage might undermine Nick's vanity. Not to mention Nick keeps singing, "You shoot me down but I won't fall; I am titanium" to every nurse who comes in the room to draw blood, to the point Harry's ready to strangle him--or David Guetta. That French bastard's going to pay at the next awards show, Harry swears to God.

When Harry finds out Nick's not sleeping at night, the stress on his body stirring up panicked memories of the accident, he asks the matron if he can stay over. She agrees, and Harry spends a few nights a week beside Nick's bed, the apple-green chair converting into a highly uncomfortable sleeper. Still, it means Nick sleeps then, his uninjured arm hanging off the side of the bed, his hand in Harry's. Harry's there if Nick wakes with a start, and he calms him down, smoothing his fingers over Nick's palm until Nick falls back asleep. 

Some nights Pete stays instead, taking Harry's place in the chair even though it's hard on his back. Harry takes Eileen to the flat, then, and they cook tea together and doze on the sofa afterwards with a bottle of wine and a bad movie before Harry wakes her up and settles her in Nick's bed. He takes the sofa, and he lies awake for half the night, wondering if Nick needs him back at the hospital. 

Harry comes back in the morning to find Nick laughing with his dad, and Harry's both relieved and a bit disappointed. He likes for Nick to need him, even if he won't admit it. 

They start Nick on physical therapy as soon as they can, telling him it'll be easier on him in the long run. Harry likes Nick's physical therapist, Joanne, a sensible, friendly woman in her late thirties who's sarcastic enough to put up with them both. She starts off with simple exercises in Nick's room, but after a week or so of that--once Nick's used to going from bed to loo with a great deal of help--she shows up one afternoon with a wheelchair.

"Mobility is important," she says cheerfully, when Nick hisses in pain and calls her a cruel bint as she helps the nurse get Nick from his bed to the wheelchair so she can take him up to her unit. "Need to get the joints moving again." She squeezes Nick's shoulder as he grimaces. Nick looks exhausted even as the nurse wheels him away. Joanne turns to Harry and asks, "Have you thought about home care for when he's discharged?"

Harry shakes his head. 

"Broken arm, leg, pelvis? He'll need it." Joanne writes down the name of a company on a scrap of paper and hands it to him. "They're discreet and used to working with people who have a bit more concerns about privacy. The doctors will keep him on PT, especially once the casts come off and he's out of rehab, but he's going to have limited mobility for a while. You'll need some help, love, and you should start planning for it now. It's hard to caregive on your own, even for your partner. My wife had a car accident a few years back, so I know."

Harry doesn't bother to correct her. He likes the idea that the staff assume Nick's his.

When Joanne leaves, Harry looks down at the paper in his hands. He hasn't considered this yet, what'll happen to Nick after hospital and rehab. He knows Nick'll hate being confined to the flat, much less having someone he doesn't know come in to take care of him, to help him shower, to cook his meals. Harry's not that keen on it either, but he doesn't think it's an option. He can do some of it, but he's not trained and he doesn't want to hurt Nick.

So he makes the call. If nothing else, he's on their waiting list. It feels right to Harry, and he'll cross the bridge of breaking it to Nick later.

Nick's exhausted and cranky when he comes back, the pain almost intolerable. Harry helps the nurse get him back into bed, and she administers pain meds that put Nick to sleep almost immediately. Harry turns off the overhead light in the room and opens the curtains just enough to let in a bit of rainy sunlight, staying away from the window to avoid any camera lenses that might be pointed his way. He's learned that from tours. Harry settles in his chair and watches Nick sleep until he dozes off himself. 

A touch on his hand wakes Harry. Nick's watching him now, his brow slightly furrowed. "Hazza," he says. "You should go home, yeah? You don't have to be stuck here all the time. You've better things to do, like seduce some pretty California girl."

Harry just blinks at him. "What are you talking about?" He yawns and stretches. "I want to be here, so stop being a twat."

Nick frowns over the top of the bed rails. His unevenly cropped hair is in need of washing, his skin's pasty pale, and his eyes are puffy. Harry thinks he looks gorgeous. "Why do you stay?" Nick asks after a moment. "Everyone else is gone, and you're still here. My dad says you've been here the whole time--"

"Not the whole time," Harry says. "Just some of it."

"A lot of it." 

Harry shrugs. 

Nick looks at him. "Harold."

And Harry gets angry then. "What do you want me to say, Nick? Your dad called me from, what, five thousand miles away to tell me you might not make it through the night. I thought my whole damn world was going to end, and I'd never even told you--" He breaks off and looks away, feeling that panic rising in him again. 

"Never told me what?" Nick asks quietly. 

Harry stands up and walks over to the other side of the room, near the loo, his back to Nick. He runs a hand through his hair. This isn't how he'd meant to say it, but he knows he has to. He draws in a deep breath. Now or never, Styles. "That I love you. That I think you are the one. For me, I mean."

A long silence stretches out behind him. Harry thinks that Nick must be able to hear the thud of his heart; it's staggeringly loud to Harry. 

"Harry," Nick says finally, and then he stops. 

"I love you," Harry says again, and his voice sounds broken. "I love you, and I almost lost you, and I don't care who knows about us any more, Nick." He turns around then, and Nick's watching him, his face expressionless. "If there _is_ an us."

"Harry Styles, you're mad." Nick points his good hand at him. " _If there's an us._ The thing is, right, that's utter shit. I've been here for five years, waiting for you to figure out what you want. Taylor. Kendall. Whatever bloody Victoria's Secret model you've been shagging this week." 

Nick pauses, gasping with effort and outrage. Harry waits motionless, unsure whether to calm him down but needing to hear what he says. They've been avoiding this conversation for too long, and even though he's concerned about Nick, he has to let him speak. Harry casts a quick eye at the monitors. Surely they'll go off if this is too much for Nick.

"You tit, of course I love you." The look on Nick's face would be comical if the situation weren't so charged. Harry's exhilarated, but he also feels like vomming, the way he had the first time he'd performed for the X-Factor judges.

Nick goes on, his chest heaving, his mouth twisted in pain. "Have for ages, and I've been mocked by my friends and my family and the whole sodding Internet because I look like a _muppet_ every time you're around." He breaks off and huffs an irritated breath. "Christ, you make my head hurt right now."

It's four steps between Harry and the bed, and then he's kissing Nick, soft and gentle, his hands on either side of Nick's shoulders. When he pulls away, Nick looks up at him from beneath his long lashes. "Well," he says, breathless. "Remind me to get narked at you more often."

Harry laughs and kisses him again. "I love you."

"Back at you, Styles." Nick's lips are rough and dry, and it's not the best set of kisses they've ever had, but Harry'll remember them forever, he thinks. His heart soars. 

"I want to do this," Harry says, sitting on the edge of his chair. "Publicly. You and me, out and in the open. No hiding this time." He frowns at Nick. "No telling the press you've never shagged me or never wanted to shag me after you've got pissed with Pixie and Daisy in Istanbul." That had annoyed Harry, even if he'd understood it.

Nick gives him an even look. "You sure about that?"

"Absolutely." Harry takes Nick's hand in his. "You?"

"I get the better end of this," Nick drawls. "Millions of girls want to shag my boyfriend, but he's mine." Nick raises an eyebrow. "All mine, yeah?"

A twinge goes through Harry. He's never really done monogamy like this. Not the way Nick's asking for. But he wants to. He nods, quick and short. "Yeah. No one else's. Same for you?"

Nick smiles. "Same for me." He strokes a thumb over Harry's knuckles. "Reckon this is worth a broken pelvis."

"I promise I'll blow you as soon as the doctors say I can." Harry grins at him. He feels ridiculously light and happy. 

A nurse knocks on the door, and Harry starts to pull away. Nick won't let him. "Let's begin as we plan to go on, yeah?" Nick says, and Harry relaxes as the nurse comes in, thermometer in hand. 

She glances at their hands, but just smiles and says, "How's things today, Mr Grimshaw?"

Harry's life is about to change, and he can't wait.

***

"Careful, love," Harry says as Nick slides out of the passenger's side of the Range Rover and onto the pavement, reaching for the chest-high walker Harry's holding steady for him. Nick winces a bit as he takes his first step. His arm's been healing well in the weeks he's been in orthopaedic rehab, but it's still not at full strength. His pelvis and leg are still painful at times, his abdominal muscles are still weak from the surgeries they'd done to stop his bleeding, and the orthopaedic surgeon's waiting another eight days before the cast comes off Nick's leg. The specialists have assured Harry that Nick's neurological progress is excellent; he still tires easily and has trouble finding words every once in a while, but he's doing really well with his recovery. 

But he's home now, and the home care nurse Harry'd arranged for is hurrying out of the flat to help them. Harry'd paid to have the steps removed whilst Nick was in hospital, smoothing them into a slow concrete slope that's easier for Nick to manoeuvre with his walker. Nick grins at Harry when he reaches the door. "It's not a Maserati," he says, "but it'll do."

The look of joy on Nick's face when he limps back into his flat is priceless to Harry.

Gwen, the nurse, catches Pig just before she skitters into Nick's walker and hands her back to Collette. "Thanks, dear," Collette says, setting Pig back on the sofa, and then she throws her arms out. "Grimmy. You're home." She hugs him gently. "I'm only here for a moment--just popped in to walk Pig-girl, and Gwen said Harry was bringing you home just now and I had to stay and welcome you, darling." She kisses each of his cheeks. "I'm so happy," she whispers into his ear. 

Nick hugs her with his good arm, holding her tight, and then Collette pulls away, wiping a thumb across her eyes. "I'll be back tomorrow with lunch for you both, all right?" She pulls Harry into a hug. "Ring me if you need anything, love," she says, and then she's out the door, leaving Harry and Nick both smiling at each other. 

"Mad woman," Nick says with affection, and Harry can only agree. Collette's been his rock lately, defending him rabidly after his statement to the press had gone out regarding his relationship with Nick. There'd been a tempest in a teapot, as Louis had put it, particularly when fans had realised that the tour start had, in fact, been postponed so that Harry could spend the rest of the the year at Nick's side, but Simon had nipped that as well as he could by telling the press as a whole that, as he saw it, anyone who'd expect someone to leave their injured partner for a tour needed a rather large injection of human kindness. Coming from Simon of all people that'd put things in perspective for most. Not all of them. But most. 

And now Harry was officially an outed man, complete with covers on Attitude and OUT and QX and the Advocate and the Gay Times, not to mention radio interviews scheduled with reporters from Australia and Brazil. Even the NPR in the States had Skyped him as he sat in Nick's room at the rehab centre, Nick making ridiculous faces at him from his bed. He'd been careful in the interviews, making certain they understood he considered himself omnisexual in a committed homosexual relationship. It was hard to explain, but it mattered to him. He didn't want people to brush over his other relationships, calling them beards, the way he'd seen some reports do. He'd never hidden what he was, exactly; he'd just hidden Nick.

Nick'd howled at the rumours that Harry was cheating on him with Sam Smith when pictures of the two of them walking down the street together were published in the Sun and the Daily Mail. (The latter of these had been highly offended on Nick's behalf, which pleased Nick to no end, given how shirty they usually were.) Harry'd just rolled his eyes. He and Sam are working on a benefit track for the Albert Kennedy Trust to help queer youth in crisis. 

Harry likes being able to be open about himself and about how he feels about Nick. It's also helped to get Liam over the whole Duck Dynasty fiasco. He and the other lads have gone out of their way to be supportive every time they're asked about Harry and Nick in public--which is at least once a week lately. Sometimes Harry thinks they should just wrap themselves in pride flags and be done with it: he has his own personal chapter of PFLAG UK when it comes to his band.

Then there's his mum. No one messes with his mum about him. Gemma swears it's a thing of beauty, watching Anne tear into any homophobe trying to make her ashamed of her son. 

Still, even the Internet comments have grown softer as Harry Instagrams his relationship with Nick--from pics of Nick sleeping in a hospital bed, familiar quiff shorn off in patches, to pics of him and a wheelchair-bound Nick being utter twonks behind a nurses' station, the nurses laughing behind them, to pics of Nick kissing him, slow and sweet. Seeing him intoxicated with Nick makes it real for people, Harry realises. It's much harder to throw hate at someone who's happy. 

And he is. Unbearably so.

He and Gwen help Nick onto the sofa to rest; Nick only complains once before he's distracted by a delighted Pig. Nick's tired, Harry knows. It'll be the end of autumn before Nick can think about going back to work. That makes him antsy, but the Radio 1 staff have been brilliant about rotating their schedules so The Breakfast Show goes on. The press has wondered if Nick'll be replaced, but Big Boss Ben's called Nick every time the rumours start to assure him no one's taking his place. And Nick started to Skype into production meetings this past week. Harry thinks it was good for him, seeing the shouts and applause of his colleagues around the conference table, even if the web video was a bit wonky. Nick needs all the adulation he can get, right now. Harry thinks he deserves it.

Nick’s quietly set up a private trust in Rachael’s name for kids who want to work in media, donating himself and soliciting other donations from the wealthiest of his group of friends. Harry’s written a substantial check, too, as has each of his lads. Right now Nick’s hoping to fund one or two university students throughout their studies, maybe even support them through a summer internship at the Beeb or Channel 4 or MTV UK, the way he’d started out. He’s asked Rachael’s parents to organise it and to keep his name out of the press. People have speculated, but Nick refuses to let his publicists confirm it, no matter how much they beg. Harry adores this about him. Nick’s not always the grand self-promoter his detractors label him. Sometimes he just knows what the right thing to do is. 

Harry sits next to Nick as Gwen takes Pig out into the garden. The flat's quiet now, in that comfortable way that's home. Harry loves it. This is what his life has been meant to be. Him and Nick and Pig. Happy and well.

He leans his head on Nick's shoulder and smiles up at him. "Welcome back, babe. You and me, here together, yeah?"

Nick curls his fingers around Harry's. "Nice, innit?"

Harry thinks it finally is.


End file.
